The Nabob's Wife
by Tarlea
Summary: Regency AU. Set approximately 100 years before canon, a series of stories about Lady Edith Strallan and her husband, Sir Anthony (whose romance and courtship you can read in The Bluestocking) in the tradition of Georgette Heyer and other Regency romances. Chapter 1 is a bridge story between The Bluestocking and my STEAMM Day 2014 fic, The Coquette.
1. In Which the Nabob and His Wife Gain an

**A/N: This story picks up there **_**The Bluestocking**_** left off. Edith and Anthony have just returned from their honeymoon in Italy and are staying for some time in their London house before returning to Locksley. This particular installment acts as somewhat of a bridge between **_**The Bluestocking**_** and my upcoming STEAMM fic, **_**The Coquette**_**. All laud to Georgette Heyer, whose excellent works inspired these stories.**

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**In Which the Nabob and His Wife Gain An Unexpected Acquaintance**

A gentle knock sounded on the interior door of Edith Strallan's dressing room.

"Come in," she answered, her eyes on the mirror in front of her as her maid Anna put the finishing touches on her hair.

The new Lady Strallan's critical look soon changed to an amused grin as she watched the reflection of her husband, bending his tall figure to get through the discreet door which led from their shared bedchamber.

"Good morning, my dear," he said smilingly, kissing her outstretched hand, and with a glance at Anna, leaning in to plant a more ardent kiss on the nape of his wife's neck.

Anna simply chuckled and said "Careful, Sir, you'll muss all my fine work,"

Edith joined in the merriment. "She's right, you know. Now sit down and tell me what this invasion is about."

He did as he was bid, lowering himself onto a flowered chaise as Anna exited and closed the door behind her.

"I've just been looking over the post," he commented in a somewhat wearied manner. "That's the nuisance of a trip abroad—you come back to a veritable mountain of correspondence. And far too many bills," he grumbled lightly.

"Yes, but it was worth all the nuisance," Edith said warmly, exchanging a speaking gaze with her husband.

"Most definitely," he replied in kind. "I left the cards on your desk. My sister would like us to dine with her as soon as we are settled in, and I think you ought to have a look at _this_ one right now," he said, extending a letter to her, "It's from your aunt."

Edith took the packet and looked down to see Lady Painswick's carefully written direction, underneath which was added the word "urgent."

Edith broke the seal and read. "She wants us to dine with her tomorrow night. She says it's important—Mary and Sybil will be there too."

"Hmmm," he raised his eyebrows. "Well, it must be important if she's going to intrude on our first few evenings at home," he commented.

"But at least we have today. Do you know, I do believe you are looking a trifle run down, Lady Edith."

Her eyes matched the sparkle in his as she raised them in look of mock worry.

"Do you? Well, perhaps the fault lies with my sleeping patterns. They have been shockingly disrupted of late," she punctuated this with a squeeze of her lover's hand. "But as you were always such a careful arbiter of my health, I daresay you have a recommendation as to how best I may restore my vigor."

"A healthy dose of fresh air after breakfast is what I prescribe," he announced authoritatively.

And so after breakfast, Edith swiftly changed into her riding clothes, complete with a green velvet poke bonnet piled with shimmering folds of amaranthine ribbon and trimmed with fine Burano lace which Edith had purchased in the Venice markets.

When she reached the foyer, Linn informed her that Sir Anthony was waiting without in the curricle. Edith thanked him, looking forward to a thrilling flight behind Sir Anthony's beautiful bays, Boreas and Zephyrus. But instead of hastening to climb into her husband's spanking carriage, when the front door closed behind her she came to a halt on the top step, and with a shuddering gasp uttered, "Oh Anthony."

Her bright eyes took in every detail of the handsome equipage before her, from its vibrant red body with yellow and black facings, to the two exquisite creatures harnessed to pull it—both gleaming white in the sunlight and perfectly matched. Perhaps the sweetest part of the picture was the Strallan family crest emblazoned on the side, and its second son perched within, enjoying her reaction with equal delight and affection.

"Well now, my dear bas bleu, will this suit? I strove to have it made exactly to your specifications."

"It's perfect," Edith breathed, remembering the time, not very long ago, when she had wished for a Grecian red curricle with white horses. She also remembered the second part of her ambition—that her husband should teach her to drive it. Grinning, she climbed up beside him, tucking her arm around his limp one as the other deftly flicked the whip. The horses responded with zeal, as if eager to impress their new mistress.

"Two such fine specimens must not go unchristened," Sir Anthony said as they made their way through London's busy streets, turning more than a few heads as they did so. The ignorant among the onlookers were quickly acquainted with the details of the Nabob Sir Anthony Strallan's recent marriage and informed of the identity of the stylish young woman at his side.

"Very true," Edith said thoughtfully, studying the pair as her mind shuffled through suggestions.

"I should like something to signify fleet-footedness for one," she said after many minutes consideration. "Have you any suggestions?"

"Pegasus?" he offered with a crooked grin.

She wrinkled her nose. "I was hoping for something less obvious. Plus, there are an overabundance of-" she caught his jesting look and stopped. "I see you were only funning. You know me well enough to know that I should prefer something far more original than that."

"Indeed, I am extremely well acquainted with your _tastes_ my dear," he remarked drily, feigning innocence as he dashed off this shocking double entendre.

She blushed appreciatively though glancing about her to ensure no one else had heard. "Don't be vulgar, my love," she teased. Then she lapsed again into thoughtful silence.

By the time London's cobbled streets and sidewalks had given way to the dirt and grass of the countryside, many appellations had been put forth and rejected. Anthony was about to suspend the christening so they might get on to the driving lesson, when Edith exclaimed,

"I have it! 'Alato!'"

He nodded his approval. "It has a nice ring to it. 'Winged,' indeed."

Edith reached forward and patted the horse in front of her. "Alato," she said triumphantly.

"And the other?" Anthony prompted, one hand easing the horses past a dog-cart.

"I am exhausted by thinking of names. I shall let you name him."

He examined the proud head before him.

"I should think 'Sidere' would suit very well."

"It is striking, but I'm afraid I do not know its meaning," she said.

"It means 'starlight.'"

"Oh I like it very much! Alato and Sidere," she pronounced.

The task of naming completed, Sir Anthony turned off of the main road and passed the reigns to his wife. With careful coaching and several unladylike expressions, Edith learned how to gauge the momentum of the curricle, how to feel her horses mouths at the end of her reigns, and how to keep her hands and commands light but firm.

"You've got to work _with_ your horses, not against 'em," Sir Anthony told her.

"I had flattered myself I _could_ work with _a_ horse," said Edith, flushed and slightly cross, "but I've never faced such odds before!"

He chuckled. "I _have_ rather thrown you in, starting you with a pair. But never fear, you'll be a first rate fiddler in no time."

Sir Anthony himself was worthy of that title, but as the exercise of imparting that skill to his wife was beginning to show, he also qualified for the title of a Job, gently correcting and calming his wife, petting her when she achieved a proper command and joking good-naturedly at her failures. Despite her frustrations, Edith was enjoying herself, and she knew she could not have wished for a more devoted or tender instructor.

She was just getting the hang of turning the curricle about, when the couple decided to stop the lesson and seek out lunch. Edith retuned the reigns to her teacher, who knew of a nearby inn that served a tolerable luncheon. They were trotting along through a shady lane, when all of a sudden a gangly figure emerged from the trees and blocked their path. One long arm leveled a pistol at them and an anxious voice shouted "Stand and deliver!"

Anthony reigned in the horses, and for a few moments none of the three parties spoke.

At length, Sir Anthony said, gently but firmly, "Put down that barking iron, lad, before you hurt yourself."

Then he calmly climbed down out of the curricle, handing the reigns to a stunned Edith. The criminal was equally nonplussed, waggling his weapon insistently and sputtering,

"Don't you try to humbug me, sir! Your purse!"

"I have no intention of humbugging anyone. Now don't be so bacon-brained. Put the gun down." Anthony repeated, inching closer to the brigand. Below the brim of a wide straw hat he saw two apprehensive eyes.

"I won't!" the lad persisted, vainly trying to regain control of the situation. "Now for the last time, empty your pockets!"

Anthony continued to scrutinize his attacker. His clothes marked him a cut above a common laborer, and his demeanor, while rustic, bore some marks of refinement and proper bearing.

"I'm afraid I must refuse. And I must ask you to behave a deal more civilized in front of my wife."

This seemed to momentarily halt the thief, but he shook off whatever pangs he was feeling and said, in a voice that was trying hard to be menacing,

"I'm giving the orders around here, so-so-hand over the lowrie or I'll-I'll-pop you!"

"I'll do no such thing," Sir Anthony replied, raising himself up to his full height and looking his adversary squarely in the eyes. "Now if you want to play the part of a Gentleman's Master, understand me when I say that if you persist in threatening my wife, I will not hesitate to see you thoroughly 'dumbfounded,' 'buckled,' and sent to the nearest 'sponging-house.' Do I make myself clear?" The baronet's voice was dangerously low and deceptively calm. The highwayman's wide eyes widened further, and nervousness was replaced by a very real fear.

"Sir, consider your situation!" he choked frantically, his pistol arm beginning to quake slightly, "I could shoot you! I could shoot you right where you stand!"

"But you won't, will you?" Edith challenged, sounding far more confident than she was. The lean figured jumped at her voice and panicked eyes darted to her face. "Not when you're holding up a baronet and his wife in broad daylight a mere six miles from Bow Street."

"Now put down that damned stick," Anthony said, with exasperation, "and I'll see if I can't find in it me to spare you from ending up a tenant at Newgate."

The mention of the infamous Bow Street and Newgate hit home, and the quivering arm dropped.

"Good man," Sir Anthony commended. "Now, as you've been abominably rude to me and Her Ladyship, I'll thank you for an apology."

The would-be thief blinked and mumbled an apology. Edith relaxed the clenching grip she had on the reigns, and her heart began making its descent from where it had leapt into her throat.

"And I'll have that, pistol, if you please."

This item was meekly handed over. For several moments Sir Anthony silently examined this antiquated but well-kept piece, while its owner waited nervously. Edith was slightly less anxious. Then, much to her surprise, Sir Anthony handed it back to the young man.

"What's your name?" Sir Anthony asked of their unexpected acquaintance.

"William," the boy mumbled, now cowed and respectful.

"Well William, if you'll take off that ridiculous handkerchief and promise to behave yourself, you can join Her Ladyship and I for luncheon and make a full explanation of your actions."

The lad hesitated. "You're—you're not going to have me hobbled?"

"That remains to be seen," Edith replied, catching the gist of this utterance.

"At any rate," Sir Anthony pointed out, "in this light I can give a fairly tolerable description of you to the magistrate so you might as well lift the veil."

With a sigh, William shoved the pistol into his belt and quickly removed the handkerchief. Despite his distress, he had a pleasant, easy countenance, and an unassuming handsomeness. Edith judged him to be about seventeen.

"Well then," Anthony said as he climbed into the curricle once more, "come along, William."

As they made their way to the inn, Edith kept a careful eye on their fellow traveler. She couldn't resist whispering to her husband,

"Dearest, are you certain you know what you're about?"

He gave her a mischievous grin in response. "My dear wife, it's almost as though you don't trust me."

"You know I do, you rogue," Edith replied affectionately, but she was still uneasy.

Within minutes the innyard came in sight. As the carriage came to a halt, two grooms came hurrying out to meet them, and hot on their heels, came the proprietor himself. Sir Anthony bestowed upon this worthy a fond smile and climbed down to shake his hand.

"Bates, I'm very glad to see you in such health. I hope you have a good luncheon prepared for today, as it will be Lady Edith's first time in your most excellent establishment."

With that he turned and gave Edith his good hand, who climbed down and came to meet this smiling but staunch-looking innkeeper.

"Bates, I'd like to present my wife, Lady Edith Strallan."

Bates bowed civilly and grinned back at the pair of them.

"I heard you was back from India and got yourself yoked," he addressed Anthony, "but I own I didn't expect it to be such a beautiful young woman as this," he said merrily, winking at Edith.

She was slightly taken aback at his familiarity, but he was such a good-natured fellow she found that she couldn't be affronted.

"You'll have to forgive Bates, my dear. I've known him since he was in the nursery," Sir Anthony explained cheerfully.

"Indeed he has your ladyship, or else I'd have no call to speak so," the innkeeper pronounced apologetically. "Though I've not seen him these ten years at least. Whatever's happened to your arm, my lord?"

"Took a bullet in the wrong place," Sir Anthony said dismissively. "We'll be requiring a private room, if you please, Bates, and luncheon for my wife and I and our guest."

Bates looked beyond the baronet to greet this guest, but all he saw was William standing awkwardly and surveying this reunion through wary eyes. The innkeeper's own eyes narrowed.

"William, what are you about? Mr. Thorne will have your hide if you're caught dawdling here. I'd get myself back to the house and be quick about it if I were you."

"William is to be our guest, Bates," Sir Anthony remarked, enjoying the surprise on his old friend's face. "I should guess that he won't take wine with us, so you'd best bring some of your prized cider as well."

Bates processed the situation for a moment, not missing the large pistol tucked into William's belt.

"Very well, your lordship," he finally said, in a voice that could not entirely hide his shock and disapproval. "If you will follow me…"

XXX

It was not long before even Edith had quite warmed to their unusual lunch-guest. The hearty repast did a great deal to calm her ruffled nerves, and the young man seemed uninclined to threaten them anew. Amid bites of chicken pudding and gulps of cider, he informed them that he worked as a footman at one of the local manor houses, had a way with horses, and had even taught himself to read and play the piano. They were also given a contrite explanation for his criminal behavior on the road.

It seemed that William was the son of a widowed farmer, and quite besotted with the daughter of a local merchant, named Daisy.

"The trouble of it is, Daisy's mum doesn't think I'm good enough, and so she won't even consider the match," he explained despairingly.

"I see," Edith said soliticiously. "And what of Daisy? Does she return your affections?"

"She does, m'am. She gave me her pledge. We were going to wait until we were of age, only her mum's planning to marry her to Mr. Henry by Michaelmas." His face was a perfect misery.

"And who, pray, is Mr. Henry?" Sir Anthony asked, amusement threatening to break through his somber façade.

"He's the old widower who lives at Rowe House. A gentleman, to be sure, but he's old enough to be her father! He's keen on her cooking, see? She's quite the cook, my Daisy."

"So you could not wait." Edith concluded. "Were you going to elope?"

He nodded.

"And the purpose of the armed robbery was?" She asked.

He coloured. "I needed money for the journey. I never intended to hurt anyone, honest."

"I think you will find my dear, that we were never in any danger," Sir Anthony contributed. "The gun was never loaded."

Edith looked at them both in shock and relief. "Not loaded?!" Then she rounded on her husband. "Well, Sir Anthony, I wonder just _when_ you were planning to apprise me of that fact!"

"Forgive me, my dear. But you must know I would never put you in any danger," he said guiltily.

"I'm sorry milady, I didn't—that is, I wasn't planning on—" William tried, grief-stricken.

"No, my lad, you did not plan. Or think, for that matter," Anthony scolded. "Holding up a curricle in broad daylight! What if I'd had a pistol under my seat and shot you? As it stands, I'd be well within my rights to report you to the magistrate—and your Daisy wouldn't thank you for either."

William said nothing, but ruefully sipped his cider.

"Never mind that, now," Edith said kindly. "I forgive you both. But the question is, what is to be done?"

"While I've a good mind to box him round the ears, I don't think there is any need to alert the magistrate," Sir Anthony said.

"Oh no, I don't mean about that. Of course we're not going to report him," Edith brushed this aside, "I mean about Daisy's mother. How can we convince her to consent to the match?"

Sir Anthony looked at his wife's determined expression. It was none of their business what happened to this unfortunate lad, and certainly none to pry into the affairs of Mrs. Robinson, who surely had her reasons for forbidding the match. But he certainly liked the boy, and he knew when Edith had set her mind on something there was no changing it. So he sighed and said,

"How indeed?"

After some discussion, it was decided that Sir Anthony would write a letter to Mrs. Robinson, recommending the match. He called for pen, paper, and ink and set to this task immediately, while Edith and William passed the time with a backgammon board.

When he had sufficiently informed Mrs. Robinson that His Lordship, Sir Anthony Strallan, Bart., looked upon the match with a most favorable eye, he folded and sealed this missive, delivering it into William's anxious hands.

"I've told her that I've had some dealings with your father—which I daresay is probably true. Luckily for you I had an uncle living in this county with whom I was used to spend several weeks a year."

"There," said Edith, nodding approvingly. "That should do the trick, and if it doesn't, then come to me in London and _I'll_ lend you the money for your elopement."

Once again my lord fixed his wife with an expression of disbelief.

"My dear, have you any idea what such an elopement would cost?"

"Well, no," she admitted, "but, you must see that one way or the other they must marry. Arranged matches are a thing I cannot like at all, as you well know. And only think how happy they should be!"

She raised a conciliatory hand to him. He frowned down at her for a few moments, thinking how lovely she looked sitting there with a fire in her eyes. He broke into a laugh.

"Very well, my sweet one," he said warmly, taking her outstretched hand and kissing it.

Half an hour later the Strallans were climbing once again into the fine curricle to make their way back to town. William went with them, as his employer lived in that direction. When they had bid their young companion adieu and turned back onto the London Road, Edith remarked.

"Well, that was an unexpected diversion. It's a pity my driving lessons could not continue. I flatter myself I was not doing too shabbily."

He smirked lovingly at her.

"Oh I agree. I would say you are a natural when it comes to maneuvering."

She laughed. "Oh my dear, I hope you are not too vexed with me."

He turned to her his eyes shining with affection.

"My darling, that is a thing I could never be," he asserted, and leaned over to kiss his wife. Any observer might well have praised his technique—for as he performed his amorous task, his hand kept a firm hold on the reigns, and his pace neither slackened nor his horses stirred. Yet there was more to be admired than his whip-hand. He was clearly showing himself to be an expert inamorato, and from her reaction, it was clear that his wife would be the first to attest to it.

XXX

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Regency Expressions Used in the Chapter and Their Meanings:

Poke Bonnet: a women's bonnet in the shape of a hood, featuring a projecting rim on the front side, which would shade the face of the wearer. This is the typical Victorian style bonnet that you often think of/see, and at the time this story is set, was beginning to feature a taller crown much like that of a gentleman's hat of the time. Accordingly, it is so-called because one could "poke" one's hair up into it.

Burano Lace: Burano is an island in the Venetian Lagoon. The tradition of crafting delicate handmade lace goes all the way back to the 16th century.

Curricle: stylish and speedy (in the right hands it could reach speeds of 16mph!), the curricle was a two-wheeled carriage which required skill and perfectly matched horses to drive. There were recreational models and racing models; Edith's would be more on the recreational side, and formed for beauty rather than speed.

Bas Bleu: French for "bluestocking;" in fashionable sets a sometimes derogatory term for an intellectual woman

Nabob: ("nay-bob") a very rich man, especially one who acquired his fortune in India. From the Hindustani word "nawab," term for a ruler in the Mogul Empire.

A first-rate fiddler: an excellent driver, a capital whip, one who can handle the ribbons (reigns) extremely well

Barking Iron: pistol

Humbug: to deceive or confuse

Bacon-brained: foolish or stupid, one of my favorite expressions of the period, along with 'goosecap' meaning a silly person

Lowrie: (theives' cant) money

Pop: (thieves cant) shoot; to pop someone = to shoot them

Gentleman's Master: a highway robber, because he makes a gentleman obey his commands, i.e-stand and deliver.

Dumfounded: (thieves' cant) soundly beaten; similar to "silenced"; in that one would be beaten so badly that he could not speak. Another fun expression in the same vein is the threat to "make you sing 'o be joyful' out of the other side of your mouth," meaning to punch you in the jaw quite soundly.

Buckled: (thieves' cant) put in handcuffs, called "buckles" or "bucklers" (also called "barnacles," "clinkers," "darbies," and "sheriff's bracelets")

Sponging-House: (thieves' cant) a by-prison

Bow Street: a street in London with an infamous criminal court; in the 18th century a force of arresting officers was established to bring in those charged and serve writs, known as "the Bow Street Runners," the bane of all theives' existence

Stick: pistol

Newgate: the main prison in London, attached to the Old Bailey, where public executions took place

Hobbled: taken up, or in custody; arrested

Yoked: married

Inamorato: a male lover, from the Italian "innamorare" which means to inflame with love

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**A/N the Second: What is Rosamund's urgent summons all about? You'll have to wait until STEAMM Day, September 14, to find out, when I publish **_**The Coquette**_**! **


	2. In Which the Nabob's Wife and Her Sister

**A/N: I was trying to get this finished in time for Valentine's Day, but alas events overtook me. But consider it a belated Valentine from me to all you lovely shippers out there! You make this fandom great!**

**[If this is the first of my DA Regency AU fics that you have read, and you would like to read them in order, **_**The Bluestocking**_** comes first, followed by Ch. 1 of this collection, then a WIP **_**The Coquette**_** and then this chapter. You should be able to follow this installment without reading any of them, however.]**

**As always, these are inspired by the excellent works of Georgette Heyer, and if you like it, I'd suggest perhaps starting with her collection of short stories, **_**Pistols for Two**_**, before diving into one of her full length novels, of which **_**Faro's Daughter**_** is my personal favorite.**

**ENJOY!**

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**In Which the Nabob's Wife and Her Sister, for Reasons of Their Own, Go Incognito**

"Well, this is sure to be a rare turn-up!" Mr. Jerome Painswick rejoiced, clapping his hands together. "I was going out of my skull, but this is just the thing! Only think! To see Mr. Branson sporting his canvas!"

Mr. Painswick, son of the widowed Lady Painswick, was down from Oxford for the summer, and joined the rest of the Crawley family at Downton Abbey for a holiday of about two weeks. For Mr. Painswick, however, who was something of a peep o' the day boy, country life for the past week had seemed unbearably slow. That was, until Mr. Branson had agreed to take part in a gentleman's bout.

Young Theodore Monroe, who was engaged in extracting a stick from his pointer's teeth, straightened with it in his hand and brandished it authoritatively.

"Brookham says he's a fair bruiser, and trained at Jackson's," he gushed.

"And if there's anyone who deserves to have his cork drawn it's that Grey fellow! Far too high in the instep if you ask me!" declared Mr. Painswick distastefully. "I hadn't known him above five minutes when he started on to me about that Covent Garden business, and how I'm pinching mama's purse beyond reckoning. Such stuff! As if he wasn't in dun territory himself half the time!"

His schoolmate grunted in agreement, throwing the stick in a careless way. His pet darted happily after it. "Your Cousin Tom is just the fellow to take the wind out of his sails! I'll lay odds Grey doesn't last ten minutes!"

"Oh, Teddy, it seems an age til' Friday!" sighed Mr. Painswick.

This last was heard by Mrs. Tom Branson, who happened at that moment to come around the corner of the house with Lady Strallan, a flower basket over her arm.

"And just whose sails are to be slackened by my husband?" she asked amusedly.

The gentlemen exchanged guilty looks.

"Oh, no one, we were just talking fustian," Mr. Painswick said hastily.

"Really? It rather sounded like there was to be a meeting of some sort?" she prompted, fixing stern eyes on the Oxfordians.

"Oh, you might as well tell her, Jerry," groaned Mr. Monroe, running an agitated hand through his ash blonde curls.

"It was meant to be a secret," said Mr. Painswick hesitantly.

"Jerome," said Mrs. Branson with a little severity, "if my husband is going to meet some gentleman in An Affair of Honour, I think I am entitled to know the particulars."

"Oh no, it ain't that," Mr. Painswick asserted, "it's not an affair of honour precisely, it's just—"

"Oh dash it, Jerry!" ejaculated Mr. Monroe, "It's to be a prize-fight, madam."

"A prize-fight?" burst Lady Strallan, aghast. "Against whom?"

"Mr. Grey," Mr. Painswick provided.

"Larry?" Mrs. Branson gasped. "In heaven's name, why?"

"Oh come now, cousin, you _know_ why. You know what sort of a fellow Grey is. It's a wonder Mr. Branson didn't call him out. I was within ames-ace of doing so myself!"

"I own he can be disagreeable," Mrs. Branson conceded tactfully.

"Disagreeable!" expressed Mr. Monroe," the fellow's a right-" he stopped himself before uttering anything too abominable before the ladies. "I'm glad your husband is to meet him, and I hope he mills his canister!"

Sybil Branson, trying not to laugh to hear such vehemence directed at an old suitor, said "It sounds as if you had better start from the beginning."

And so she stood silent as the two gentlemen gave a rather colorful account of their last evening's dinner at the Grantham Arms attended by My Lord Grantham, My Lord Crawley, Sir Anthony Strallan and Mr. Branson. What the ladies could gather from this rather disjointed account was that Mr. Larry Grey had turned up, and having been graced with the knowledge that Mr. Branson trained at Jackson's Saloon and hearing him praised by the innkeeper as "right handy with his fives," had entered into a disputation as to their respective skills, the outcome being that the two gentlemen had agreed to meet on Friday for a genteel bout to settle the matter.

When the tale had reached its conclusion, the two ladies bit back a score of undignified opinions and simply thanked the gentlemen for their confidence and went to seek their tea.

"I hope we don't land in the suds for telling them," Mr. Painswick said as he watched them go.

Mr. Monroe shrugged unaffectedly. "I don't think they'll cry rope. They're fairly right ones, your cousins. You know Lady Edith plays piquet and Mrs. Branson doesn't care so much for what anyone says."

"Yes, but there'd be the Devil to pay if Cousin Mary or the Old Lady found out. They'd kick up a right fuss."

Mr. Monroe grimaced at this suggestion and bent to retrieve his stick, which he threw, much to the delight of his neglected pup.

XXXXX

"It is true that Tom is to fight Larry Grey?" Lady Strallan asked of her husband that evening as she dressed for dinner. By now, her lady's maid Anna had become quite used to Sir Anthony's presence in the dressing room, as Lady Edith did not always go to bed with her husband, he being the older and having business which took him early from home, and besides having more important matters to attend to when she did go to bed with him, which led the husband and wife to discuss things over her toilette. Anna could be out of the room in a moment if things were being said which she ought not be privy to, but often this was not the case, and if she did not mind some effusions of affection, she could remain comfortably silent.

"I see our young bloods could not keep their tongues," Sir Anthony remarked. "Well, I suppose you were bound to find out one way or the other. Yes, it is to happen at two o'clock on Friday."

"Will you be going?"

"Well, yes," he said, giving a crooked smile, "I thought I ought to go and support Tom. Matthew is coming too, and the lads."

"You can't gammon me, Sir Anthony. I know how much you enjoy a good set-to."

He grinned.

"And do you think Tom stands a good chance of coming off the victor?" Edith asked, trying to sound disinterested.

"I believe so. Larry is, characteristically, over-confident, and I think that will be his downfall. What's more, Matthew can attest to the force of Mr. Branson's fist."

Edith giggled. "I would dearly like to see Larry Grey with his bellows to mend," she said, as Anna collected her discarded afternoon dress and exited the room.

His smile fell. "Oh, my dear, I should of course love to take you, but you know it's not at all the thing and—"

Lady Strallan rose to face her husband. "Do not fret my dear. I know it is not within your power to bend the rules of polite society," she said, rising onto her toes to place a small kiss on his cheek and murmur into his ear. "Except in the bedroom."

He gave a surprised cough-chuckle, and Edith laughed and said brightly, "Shall we go down?"

XXXXX

The next morning, as the party left the breakfast-parlour to begin their various activities, Lady Strallan found herself being surreptitiously hailed by her younger sister. She followed the hushed entreaties into the library, where that lady bade her sit and then made a most shocking declaration.

"Edith, I mean to go to that fight tomorrow."

Lady Strallan, used to her sister's disregard for convention, was not shocked, but grinned indulgently.

"My dear, I should like very much to go myself, but I have asked Sir Anthony and he has declined to take me," she said.

Mrs. Branson bit her lip. "Did Sir Anthony _forbid_ you to go?"

"No, he would never do something so tyrannical. But he is perfectly right, it would not be at all proper."

"Oh, but shouldn't you like to see Larry set down a peg?" Sybil pressed, undeterred.

"I can think of few sights that would afford me greater pleasure, but you know as ladies we _may not_ attend," Edith insisted.

"That is precisely what I _do_ know," retorted Sybil, her eyes sparkling dangerously.

Lady Edith caught her look.

"Oh no, Sybil! You _cannot_ mean to—"

"We cannot go as ladies," Mrs. Branson interrupted, "so we must go as gentlemen!"

She grinned broadly and punctuated this pronouncement with a clumsy bow.

"Oh Sybil, do you know what you are saying? What if we should be found out?!"

"If what the boys said is true, there should be quite a crowd of spectators. We will simply take care to blend in," Sybil explained.

"And how do you propose we do that? How are we even to lay hands on the gentlemen's attire?!"

Sybil gave another daring smile. "Jerome and Teddy!" she exclaimed.

By the afternoon Mrs. Branson had secured these redoubtable allies and persuaded Lady Strallan to accompany her in what Mr. Painswick gleefully declared "a famous hum," though what she herself thought to be entirely too risky. However, as her sister had made clear to her that she meant to go whether Edith came or not, she felt it her duty to accompany her and try to help her avoid calamity. What was more, she admitted to herself, she _did_ wish to see the fight.

Having brought Anna into their confidence, they were able, the next afternoon when they were purported to be resting from the summer heat, to be fitted into some of the collegians' spare apparel. As the two young men aspired to pinkdom, these included a pair of green striped trousers, a flowered waistcoat, and frock coats of such delicious shades of blue and gold as the ladies could want. These were modified with some padding in the shoulders, but no amount of adjustment by Anna could make them fit as tightly as was the fashion. The ladies were topped with high crown beavers, and each sported a vibrantly patterned neckcloth, expertly tied by Mr. Monroe, whose own exquisite neckerchief was printed with salmon-coloured roses. Calf-skin gloves clumsily concealed their dainty fingers, and each carried a brass-topped walking stick to complete the illusion.

Upon inspection, Mr. Painswick wrinkled his nose and remarked, "If anyone asks you must tell them your portmanteau has been lost or you fell in the mud or some such gammon. No one is going to be fooled into believing these togs belong to you. But mind you _don't_ fall into the mud."

More careful instructions were addressed to the ladies as they approached the sparring ground, a clearing far enough from the road and house so as to be concealed from prying eyes.

"You'd do best to keep to the back of the crowd and don't speak to anyone," Mr. Painswick warned.

"And don't take any bets," Mr. Monroe added as an afterthought.

The ladies exchanged an exasperated look, but said nothing.

The field chosen for the bout was buzzing with gentlemen of all sorts; farmers, tradesmen, servants and gentlemen from the locality. Technically, prize-fighting was illegal within the county limits, but few magistrates bothered to enforce this edict, and Edith noticed more than one spectator that she knew to be a member of the county watch. She spied Mr. Branson standing talking merrily to Lord Grantham and Lord Crawley and Sir Anthony, and her stomach lurched nervously. She offered a silent prayer that they could avoid an encounter with her father, who would be the least forgiving of those gentlemen. A little ways from them stood Mr. Grey, wearing his usual smug expression. She could not hear what he was saying, but she could be sure he was bragging to the small group of gentlemen gathered around him of his skill and intention to swiftly dispatch his opponent. However, many in the crowd seemed to favor Mr. Branson, and as Downton's footman Mr. Barrow moved through the crowd with a ledger marking down bets, Edith gathered that the money was stacking against Mr. Grey.

Mr. Painswick and Mr. Monroe hurried forward to place their own wagers, and Lady Strallan and Mrs. Branson took their places at the back of the crowd and waited. Within minutes, Lord Crawley, the elected arbiter for the bout, announced that the match was to begin and called the participants to take their places on either side of a painted line on the grass. This they did, shrugging off the coats which hung over their bare shoulders, stretching one foot behind them, and raising two curled fists. Sybil and Edith held their breath with the rest of the crowd as for several long minutes each gentleman sized up his opponent. Then, Sybil had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stay her cries as Mr. Gray lunged forward with a flurry of swift jabs which Mr. Branson only just managed to dodge. Seconds later, Grey tried again to bring a sweeping blow around to the Irishman's face but was deflected. The crowd erupted into shouts of approval as Mr. Branson advanced on his opponent and managed to land a blow just beneath the chin, causing Mr. Grey to retreat a step. For many moments the combatants prowled around one another. Then, Mr. Branson charged forward with a swipe at Mr. Grey's head, but missed, and earned himself a glancing blow to his ribs. This time, Edith was unable to suppress a cry of distress, but thankfully it was swallowed by the cacophony of the congregation.

So the fight continued, and by the time of the first respite, each contender had managed to deal one or two solid punches to his opponent. Mr. Branson was, to the delight of the crowd, faring quite well, though twice had let his guard down for a few moments, to the consternation of his fans. He did not share his reason; that once or twice he could have sworn he had seen a familiar face in the crowd…

The second round became more heated, as the men grappled and jabbed and swung at one another in a determined frenzy which electrified the onlookers, and the din of their shouts rose to near deafening. Leading the chorus was the burly grocer Mr. Tufton, who it was said served a fair bit of home-brewed when given the opportunity. He hollered and waved his arms wildly, boxing a phantom opponent in time with the punches of the pugilists. He joined in one grand sweep of Mr. Grey's which found its mark on Mr. Branson's jaw, dazing him.

Edith was anxiously watching her brother in law take a few unsteady steps and shake his head, when she was aware that Sybil had disappeared from her side. Looking about she saw that her sister had stooped to collect her hat, which had been knocked from her head by Mr. Tufton's exertions, loosing some of her piled locks. Within moments, she had straightened, and fled away from the group, with Lady Strallan hot on her heels.

There was some small commotion at this, though it was mostly swallowed by the excitement as Mr. Branson rallied to land a series of lightning blows to Mr. Grey's stomach. However, Mr. Monroe noticed and, laying an imploring hand on his companion's sleeve, said, "Cat's out of the bag, Jerry," adding, when Mr. Painswick followed his point to the departing figures, "Best go after them."

Mr. Painswick, loathe to leave the bout when it was beginning to get good, nodded, and they turned to pursue the ladies. However, just as they had cleared the throng, Mr. Painswick felt an arresting hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sir Anthony gazing down at him genially.

"Gentlemen, I beg you will let me handle this," said the baronet calmly.

"Sir, I think you do not—," Mr. Monroe tried.

"I rather think I do," insisted Sir Anthony. "Please, return to the fight and leave this to me."

As Sir Anthony's long strides increased the distance between himself and the sparring ground, he spied two slender figures taking shelter under a shady tree. Both stood with their backs to him, the one wiping "his" face with a rather garish handkerchief, and the other, he realized quickening his pace, doubled over, holding a low-hanging branch for support.

"Are you quite well?" he called, approaching them.

The bent figure straightened, and Mrs. Branson raised a mirthful face to his.

"Oh, Sir Anthony, we are found out! I declare I never knew anything so thrilling in my life!" she panted.

Sir Anthony suppressed a grimace.

"I am glad to find you are unhurt," he said somewhat stiffly. "But you very well might have been. I can only think of the improprieties you have been exposed to—"

"Oh fudge! I chose to expose myself to them, and I'm not such a schoolroom miss that I haven't heard half of it before!" Sybil returned scornfully.

Sir Anthony pursed his lips and turned his attention to the other figure, who was near hugging the tree in an effort to avoid detection.

"And your compatriot, I imagine, is your pitiable maid, no doubt, pressed into this escapade." He reached a long arm to snatch the beaver, revealing to his surprise, a set of familiar curls.

"Oh God," he groaned, shaking his head wearily. "I might have known it."

Edith turned to him with a contrite expression.

"You are not too vexed with me I hope?" she asked in a small voice.

Sir Anthony looked from one imploring face to the other. Suddenly he burst into a laugh.

"I know I ought to be, but I find I cannot blame you for wanting to see the match."

"By the way, what happened after Larry landed that facer? Did Tom recover?" Edith asked.

He smirked affectionately at her. "Your cousin, my little hoyden, can handle himself well enough," he assured her. "It is you that I worry about just at present."

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Branson asked.

"Well, enough of the gentlemen noticed your—shall we say faux-pas—and they are already beginning to guess at the truth."

Edith blanched. "This is just what I feared! What can we do?!"

Sir Anthony's blue eyes sparkled. "You must beat them to the finish, my sweet one."

XXXXX

Mr. Larry Grey was quite done-up. He'd gone four rounds with the damned Bog Lander, dealt him some damned fine blows, and still the fellow refused to be beaten. Not only that, but his attacks were growing fiercer, and more and more of them were hitting their mark. What Grey needed to do was focus and defend until he had the opening for one solid blow that would finish him. He set his jaw and studied his opponent closely, waiting for the right moment. A rumble sounded in his ears and he glanced in its direction, though he never determined its source.

Moments later, the crowd's roaring exultations were interrupted as two ladies in smart riding habits and dashing poke bonnets came riding towards them. Mr. Branson blinked up at them from amid the clamor of men thumping him on the back.

"Sybil darlin'. What are you doing here?" he gaped, as Lord Crawley hastily helped him into his shirt.

"Edith and I have been riding this past _hour_, practicing our jumps." Answered Sybil loudly. She had ridden into sight just in time to see her husband level Mr. Grey. "We heard the commotion and came to see. Have you been fighting?" Mrs. Branson feigned surprise.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a number of the assembled gentlemen muttering to themselves, but kept her face passive.

Her husband examined her face carefully. "Mrs. Branson, if you would be so good as to climb down from there, I would speak with you," he said with arch severity.

Sybil meekly dismounted, handing her reigns to a nonplussed Mr. Painswick and taking her husband's arm.

They were not far from the temple, and to this he led her, saying as soon as they had reached the privacy of its columns,

"So it _was_ you!"

She gave him a wicked grin. "Serves you right for not telling me you were going to meet Larry! I am _so_ _glad_ you won!"

He fixed her with an intense gaze. "Indeed. I hold myself very fortunate," he said in a low voice, bearing down upon her, "to have bested Mr. Grey. In more ways than one."

Mrs. Branson gave a small gasp as she found herself seized and drawn into a crushing embrace, which she melted into, responding with her own fervor as he continued his devotions, discarding the tall bonnet and posing a great threat to the top buttons of her stylish dress.

XXX

Mr. Grey finally revived as the last of the wagers were collected, and the spectators drifted off to share a repast at the Grantham Arms. Having collected his due, Sir Anthony strode over to his wife. He took her hand and kissed it, saying tenderly,

"My dear Lady Strallan. May I say how well you look?"

She smiled conspiratorially at him. "You may, Sir Anthony."

She took his offered arm and they began to walk toward the house, Edith's other hand looped in her reigns.

"Allow me also to observe how very much I love you," he declared, craning sideways to plant a kiss on her collarbone.

"Sir Anthony!" she protested, eyes darting about to see if anyone was watching.

"Ah my dear, you cannot put me off. For I have seen how shockingly you behave in public," he teased, moving to stand in front of her "so surely it is no matter if I kiss you senseless right here and now."

The Nabob instantly fulfilled his prophecy, imbuing his endearment with such passion that his wife felt rather faint. To her relief, no one took any notice, save for the stallion, who tossed his head and whinnied indignantly.

XXXXX

REGENCY EXPRESSIONS USED IN THIS CHAPTER AND THEIR MEANINGS:

turn-up: fight or commotion

to sport one's canvas: to fight

peep o' the day boy: someone always involved in kicking up larks

bruiser: boxer/fighter

Jackson's: "Gentleman" John Jackson; Lord Byron called him "the Emperor of Pugilism," who, after winning one infamous bout, opened the quintessential boxing saloon in Bond Street, where gentlemen of the ton could learn the subtle art of boxing

to draw one's cork: to punch in the nose and cause to bleed; blood being referred to as "claret."

too high in the instep: Arrogant; snobbish; overly proud; haughty

in dun territory: In debt-The tradition is that it refers to Joe Dun, a famous bailiff of Lincoln in the reign of Henry VII, who was famous for his skill at collecting debts. A debt collector is sometimes called a dun, and to be "dunned" means that debtors are harassing one with requests for payment.

Fustian: Rubbish; nonsense (one of my favorite Regency expressions)

An Affair of Honour: that is; a duel, in which one person's honour is insulted and reparations made through fencing, or pistol shot usually

within ames-ace: nearly, very near

to mill one's canister: to break ones head; the head being the "canister"

handy with his fives: a good boxer, "fives" being fists

to cry rope on someone: give them away, tell secrets

piquet: a card game of great strategy, not widely played by women as it was considered to be beyond their intellect and because it was usually played for fairly high stakes

toilette: the process of getting dressed

bloods: sporting gentlemen or young energetic gentlemen who are up to anything

gammon: to deceive, to tell lies, trick; also a lie or falshood

set-to: fight; boxing match

bellows to mend: often bellows to mend with; having the wind knocked out

not the thing: not fashionable; not according to the rules of society; unacceptable

a hum: a hoax or deception; sometimes for a joke; from humbug

pinkdom: that is, to be considered a pink of the ton, a man at the height of fashion (the ton being fashionable society)

portmanteau: a large trunk or suitcase

togs: clothing

a bit of home-brewed: referring to skill in boxing or fighting without formal training

fudge: nonsense; also, a fudge is a false rumor

to land a facer: to punch someone in the face

done-up: tired, worn out, or exasperated

Bog Lander: a vulgar nickname for an Irishman, the country being full of bogs; also bog trotter

the temple: by which we mean the garden folly, the Temple of Diana, a round columned structure that stands at Highclere Castle today

Nabob: a person who has made his fortune in trade in India (or another foreign country)l usually connected to the East India Trading Company


End file.
